Jarl seemed particularly preoccupied with the Shield of Odin. What gave it its powers? How had their forefathers come to possess it? And what secret scrubbing agent had Voldar used to keep it so clean and shiny all these years? Drott told of the time before they were born when Voldar, in the full flower of youth, while in the service of a Gottlander king, had been given the Shield in gratitude for having saved the king’s twin sons who’d nearly drowned when their trading ship had been attacked by pirates. The Shield, the king had told Voldar, had been crafted generations before by trollfolk who dwelled in a far northern realm and were known to employ the bewitchments of sorceresses—known as vølvas—in the forging of their weaponry, and thus had the Shield gained its powers. And when Jarl asked how he knew all this, Drott said that his suddenly sharpened faculties had helped him recall long-forgotten tales his uncle Hakon the Rude used to tell when Drott was an infant.
Finally there came questions about the nature of death and whether he knew how each of them was to meet his demise. This Drott could not answer. He patiently explained that he only had wisdom. Intelligence. This was not the same as foreknowledge; only the gods could see the future, he said, for they were all-powerful and all-knowing.
“But if the gods are all-knowing,” asked Ulf the Whale, “how could Thor lose his Hammer?” He was referring to the prophecy they’d heard since childhood, the one Voldar had so often told them round the fire.
“Hhmm,” said Drott with a frown, appearing to be stumped. “It does seem rather unlikely, doesn’t it?”
“So the prophecy isn’t true?” Some of the men seemed alarmed.
“Well, think about it,” said Ulf. “How could the great and powerful Thor lose his Hammer? What? In a fit of drunkenness he drops the Hammer and can’t remember where he left it? It’s fifty feet long! He’d always know where he left it.”
“You’re right,” said Drott. “I don’t think a god of his stature would ever lose the greatest power in the heavens by accident.” A small look of pride then spread over Ulf’s big ruddy face, pleased his own mental prowess was now on display.
“Unless,” Drott paused for emphasis, “he were to lose it on purpose.”
“On purpose?” Ulf asked. “Why?”
“Yes!” Drott answered, his excited mind seeing a new possibility. “What if he let it fall to earth deliberately? As a test?”
A test? Now he had Ulf’s attention. The others, too, traded quizzical looks, wondering where Drott was going with this, Drott himself not altogether sure.
“Yes, you know—maybe he knows exactly where it is and is just testing us, to see what we mortals will do with it. To see whether we’ll use it for good or for evil—or for some nuanced and multifaceted mixture of the two.” He looked at them expectantly, awaiting a reaction, wondering himself if his notion indeed had any truth to it.
The men considered it a long moment. Then Ulf said, “Naaah!” and dismissed it with a wave. The others chimed in, saying Drott had stopped making sense and he ought to stick to things he really knew about, like which herbal remedies were best for frostbite and why flint rock could be used to spark a fire and other stones could not.
Knowing that their situation was dire, Dane stood alone at the bow, staring into the misty darkness, trying to quiet his mind and forget what Drott had told him. His stout friend had taken him aside earlier, eager to share his new-found literacy.
“Listen, Dane,” he’d said, “I know what you’re feeling. You’re anxious. Uneasy. In an apprehensive muddlement.” Dane had just stared at him uncomprehendingly. “Or maybe it’s more like a jittery disquietude? A kind of distress edging toward despair? Or perhaps a dark foreboding, a fretful trepidation bordering on full-scale panic and—”
Dane had silenced his friend with an oath, but Drott had continued, explaining that he was just having a “crisis of confidence,” wherein a man whose true nature is yet untested feels overwhelmed by problems he faces and fears he hasn’t strength to carry on.
Dane hadn’t felt very encouraged by these words. But he’d thanked Drott all the same and bidden him go back to the men at the stern of the ship, where he’d continued his speechifying. And though Dane, overhearing it all, had had his doubts about the whole Thor’s Hammer business, he’d been glad the men had the distraction, for it gave him time to think.
They’d traveled north with no problem, entering the narrow passageway known as the Shallow Shoals of Peril—which Drott said had once been called “The Extremely Narrow and Shallow Shoals of Peril and Almost Certain Death” but then shortened to make it less cumbersome in conversation. Dane had confidently sailed into these dangerous straits, believing the tide high enough to carry them safely through the rock-plagued waters.
He’d been wrong. Soon after they’d entered, the tide receded, revealing the first few massive rocks rising up out of the sea. But he hadn’t panicked. He’d calmly guided the ship himself, calling from the bow back to Blek at the rudder, telling him how to maneuver safely through the deadly straits.
But the tide sank further. More rocks appeared. Night fell and it grew dark. And then, worse, a blinding fog had set in, and even after lighting all the ship’s torches, they could see but a few yards in any direction. The choppy seas heaved the ship in unexpected ways, making it harder to steer clear of the rocks that would suddenly appear out of nowhere.
And that’s when Dane panicked. He could hear the mutinous grumblings of the men behind him and knew that one way or another they’d soon be sunk, no matter how smart Drott was. Lost and alone, he drew his coat tighter around him for warmth and peered out into the misty fog, searching for answers.
They’d found their wind, all right. And the wisdom they’d gained had only led to this deadly pass. But what of the thunder they sought? What form would it take, and where and when would they find it? And even if they found it, how exactly were they to employ its powers to defeat their foe? Maybe the gods had forsaken him altogether, just as they had abandoned his father. What good were the gods, anyway? They never were there when you needed them. Perhaps, as Dane had often secretly believed, they existed only in the imagination of mortal men, as a kind of ideal of perfection men themselves created in order that they might strive to attain it.
Further troubled by these thoughts, his mind sought comfort in the past. He remembered something his mother had told him on the night of his father’s death. After the funeral at sea and Lut’s reading of the runes, everyone had gone back to what was left of their huts. It was then, alone with his dear mother, that Dane had broken down and wept. He’d told his mother he was afraid, that he didn’t think he was up to the task of being a leader, and that Jarl was a more able man than he. He even confessed his urge to run away and live alone in the woods for the rest of his days, so he wouldn’t have to bear the dagger stares from the rest of the men and women of the village. Moved by her son’s vulnerability, his mother had grabbed him by the hair and given him an iron look.
“Now you listen to me. Your father, may he rest, was one flinty son of a weasel. There were days I’d’ve sooner bashed his head in than look at him. But he had a fire inside him. You warmed yourself by that fire, Son, and whether you feel it yet or not, you have it within you too. Forget about trying to become your father. Just become the man he knew you could be. Feel the fire, Son. Believe in yourself. That’s all a boy really has to do to become a man.”
Dane looked at her. “Is that it, Ma? That’s the speech?”
“Pretty much,” she said. “Oh, and eat your vegetables and take it easy on the grog and remember to change your underthings once or twice a month.”
“Can you let go of my hair now, Mother?”
“Of course, Son,” she said. She let go. Then she’d kissed him and started to build a fire in the hearth. Dane had lain awake all night in his father’s old cedar chair, unable to sleep, staring up at the empty spot on the wall where the Shield of Odin had once hung, brooding about the other things now missing from his life and wh
at he could do to get them back.
Alone now at the bow of the ship, Dane remembered his mother’s words. Believe in himself? How could he? They were in this fix all because of him. Jarl was right. Dane had no business piloting a warship. Other than his good luck in picking the wisdom water, all he’d done was make bad judgments and wrong decisions.
Dane peered up at the cloud-enshrouded moon. The mists that rose from the sea were as thick and impenetrable as the obstacles he faced. Could he lead the men to safety? Was Astrid lost to him forever? Could he ever be as fearless and brave as his father had been? Of course not, he thought. I’m just a stupid kid who thought he was hot stuff. Dane the Defiant? They might as well call me Dane the Ridiculous! And forget ever becoming a celebrated Rune Warrior! Ha! There was about as much chance of that happening as there was of Dane growing a second nose!
He looked to Lut the Bent, who lay asnore beneath his furs. The old one had taken sick a few hours before, complaining of fever ache, and though Lut had tried to shrug it off, saying it was nothing to bother about, Dane had insisted he take to his bed and rest. Lut had done so, spending much of their sea journey asleep. Dane felt acutely the absence of his counsel. And when twice Dane had shaken Lut awake to give him more mead and ask how he was feeling, all Lut had said was “A man can fool his fate,” and gone back to sleep. Was this an important dream truth, Dane had wondered, or just the mumblings of a feeble old man?
The southern skies were clotted with clouds, but to the north two stars shone clear and bright. For a moment Dane thought of them as two eyes looking down upon him, the eyes of his father. Staring up into these star eyes, he felt the presence of his father’s spirit, and forming words from the feelings in his heart, he sent out a silent prayer, asking for strength and guidance and, yes, wisdom, for he knew he’d need these to succeed. He told his father he felt responsible for all that had happened and if it were possible he would give his own life to reverse all that had gone wrong. He waited, hoping for some kind of answer, a comforting sign.
None came. The ship drifted on. Dane peered into the fog, feeling more alone and scared than ever. He wished he could just go back to being the fun-loving boy he once was and let someone else bear this terrible burden.
Then all at once, as if on divine cue, the curtain of fog parted and the men saw a spectacular sight in the northern sky. Shimmering arcs of light, glowing yellow, green, and blue, moved across the starry firmament, great swirls of glitter alive and vibrating like a million sparklers marching in unison.
The men were gobsmacked. They stopped rowing and fell silent, gazing in wonder at this glorious sight.
Well, I’ll be dipped in weasel spit, thought Dane.
Drott let loose a mighty belch, bbbru-u-up! This awoke Lut from his slumber, and now he, too, saw the sight.
Rik and Vik the Vicious Brothers glanced up, shrugged, and continued drinking.
“What is it?” asked Jarl, no lover of nature.
“By the gods!” cried Lut, transfixed by the sight. “’Tis the Valkyries themselves! Reflections off their very shields!”
Even the Vicious Brothers now ceased their revelry and stared at the dancing lights in the sky. The Valkyries? They were the breastplated warrior-maidens believed to ride across the sky on horseback and choose which of the fallen warriors were to be taken up to Valhalla.
“The Valkyries?” said Fulnir. “If they’re here, then they must know we’re soon to be in battle with our enemy. It means we’re going in the right direction; Thidrek must be within our grasp!”
The men traded looks, absorbing this. Dane felt especially encouraged.
“They watch us and wait,” croaked Lut. “For only the most worthy of warriors will be taken up to sit at the right hand of Odin and the gods who gaze down upon our deeds.” There passed a silence, each man alone with his thoughts.
Jarl, ever the vain one, could think only of what it meant for his fate.
“Take me, dear Valkyries!” he cried to the heavens. “I’m no coward!”
“You’re not even dead yet, ya ninny,” cracked Dane, and this drew laughs from the others. All the men, even Rik and Vik, found it amusing because they knew full well that Jarl’s biggest fear was of not being taken to Valhalla after he died—being left behind and deemed unworthy by the gods.
“Go ahead and laugh,” snarled Jarl in disdain. “But mark my words. The gods see all. Only the best and bravest are chosen—only they who fight with fearless hearts!” He shot a burning look at Dane. “And we know which of us best fits that description!”
Struck to the quick, for a moment Dane couldn’t speak. But when Jarl smirked and flicked his hair, this smug display of vanity made Dane want to strike back and say the one thing that would hurt him most.
“But what if you’re wrong, Jarl?” said Dane. “What if there is no warriors-only heaven? What if it’s a lie?”
Jarl’s eyes went wide. “What?”
“What if everyone who dies goes to the same heaven? Whether they died bravely or died cowardly or just died of old age? What if Valhalla is for everyone, Jarl? Not just big-headed pretty boys like you?” It was a notion Dane had been toying with for some time, but this was the first time he was giving voice to it.
“Didja hear that?” Jarl asked of the others on board. “Blaspheming, he was! The man’s crazy!”
“Oh, Jarl, get over yourself. You think you’re god’s gift.”
“See? There he goes again!” cried Jarl. “Blaspheming against the gods!”
And with that Jarl grabbed him, trying to start a scrap, but Dane, wanting no fight, shoved Jarl away.
“I’m here to take vengeance on my foes,” huffed Jarl. “Not to bow to your commands!”
“You’re just mad,” said Dane, “that Astrid was with me that night and not you!”
“And look what happened! You couldn’t even protect her! Even if we do save her, you really think she’ll want anything to do with a girl like you?”
That did it. Dane tackled Jarl, and the two went tearing into each other full tilt, rolling on the deck, landing blows and swearing oaths, erupting in a full-out fight. And as the men gathered round to watch and wager on which man would win, no one noticed the sky clouding up nor the biting wind that began to blow.
The fight grew heated as Dane and Jarl hurled curses and blows at each other, each trying to wrestle the other into submission.
“They will smite you, Dane!” growled Jarl. “The gods will smite the unbeliever!”
And smite they did. That moment—ka-REEECH!—the ship hit a rock and the hull scraped across it, the screech of granite against wood so earsplittingly loud, it seemed to tear the night in half. And the next instant—as if sent by Thor himself—a storm blew in, and in what seemed only moments, gale-force winds were whipping across the deck. Objects that weren’t lashed down went flying overboard. Their wooden shields and iron war helmets went bouncing away, along with some weaponry.
Even Dane’s raven, Klint, trying to fly to safety, was caught by the horrific force of the wind and blown sideways out to sea, gone in the blink of an eye.
Waves, now ten feet high, rose and crashed into the hull of the ship, tipping the ship nearly sideways, threatening to sink her altogether. The wind howled so loudly, the men could barely hear one another’s cries as they fought to grab the mast or other parts of the ship to keep from falling overboard.
Dane’s mind went first to the weakest of his crew. Taking a line already tied to the mast, he lurched over to where Lut lay huddled and swiftly looped it between the old one’s legs and round his waist. This way, even if a man were washed overboard, he could be easily hauled back on deck and saved, something Dane had learned from his father years before. Doing it came as naturally as the instinct to save himself.
“My time is nigh,” he heard Lut rasp as he met the old one’s frightened eyes. The sheeting rain made it hard to see, much less knot, the rope. Dane shouted reassurance over the wind-howl, working frantically to kno
t the rain-slippery rope. Then he felt a poke in his ribs. It was the runebag. Lut had it tight in his hand and was urging Dane to take it. Lut entrusting the runes to him? For a moment, Dane was tempted. But how could he take them? To do so would mean he no longer expected Lut to live, and this was the last thing he wanted the old man to believe, especially now, when he needed all his strength to hold on.
Dane pushed the runebag back under Lut’s cloak, giving him a final look of reassurance, and finished knotting the rope. And just as he’d secured it, another wave crashed over him, knocking Dane to the deck so hard, it jarred his vision. Fighting wind and waves, saltwater stinging his eyes, he crawled to the ship’s railing and clung there, holding on for dear life. Jarl and the Vicious Brothers clutched the railing a few feet away, as did Fulnir and Ulf. He held their panicked looks as again and again giant walls of water washed over them all, tossing their ship about as if it were but a tiny bit of tree bark. The crushing weight of each crashing wave pounded the deck planks like resounding thunder.
And the frothy crests of the waves, milky white in the moonlight, now appeared to him as the talons of some wicked beast as they broke over the deck, the curved arcs of water like long-fingered claws grasping at his men and trying to pull them into the sea. But then, in horror, Dane realized these were claws—the covetous claws of the Ægirdóttir—the Nine Daughters of the sea god, Ægir, waterborne spirits who, ever lonely for love, lurked beneath the waves and snatched men from ships, pulling them down to their undersea lair, where the drowned corpses were forever the daughters’ companions.
Dane looked up and saw a massive water-claw rise high over the deck. It paused, as if selecting its prey, then plunged down, ensnaring both Fulnir and Lut in its foamy grip, pulling them toward the railing. Grabbing his sword, Dane leaped at the daughter’s water-claws dragging his kinsmen overboard. His blade sliced through the talons, severing their grip, freeing Fulnir and Lut. The severed water-claws fell to the deck, writhed as if in pain for a moment, then, losing their long-fingered form, dissolved into ordinary seawater again and washed away. More foamy talons rose up, now seizing the starboard side of the ship, trying to capsize it. “Off! Hack them off!” Dane yelled, and Orm and Fulnir rose to the challenge and swung their swords, quickly slicing through the water-claws, releasing their hold on the ship, and the men watched in relief as the befrothed stumps withdrew and disappeared back into the sea.
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